


upon the sated flood

by TomBowline



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Desperation, Francis Crozier Attempts Aftercare, Hate Sex, Humiliation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Piss without Plot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn Logic, Watersports, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:21:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27020407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomBowline/pseuds/TomBowline
Summary: James was very much regretting that he had not thought to make use of the seat of ease before the command meeting had begun.James is getting desperate; Francis notices.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 12
Kudos: 57





	upon the sated flood

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a [kinkmeme prompt](https://terrorkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/396.html?thread=299148#cmt299148). Title from "Flood" by James Joyce, a lovely poem from the patron saint of horny writing.

James was very much regretting that he had not thought to make use of the seat of ease before the command meeting had begun.

It had not been so very bad at first - he had not even been aware of it for the first half-hour. And when he did begin to feel that focused sort of tingling sensation in his abdomen, he did not mind it overmuch. It had never been an unpleasant thing, to his view, not in such an early stage - it was almost pleasurable, producing sensations not dissimilar to arousal. But while an inopportune erection could be willed away given time, this particular predicament could only get worse. 

He was frustratingly shy of pissing around others - an inconvenient hangup for a sailor to have, surely, but James had never quite got past it - and he knew that even if he could find the moment, get the courage to slip off to the seat of ease at the opposite side of the room, he would have to stand there with prick in hand for many moments before anything could happen. It helped to stroke down his length, a sort of coaxing motion to start the process up, but to do so while he was in the same room as his fellow officers was out of the question. The only option left was to simply wait out the meeting. Fine, he had thought. It was not as if he hadn’t done it before.

He had tried, for awhile, to concentrate on the meeting to the exclusion of all else - but he had given this up for the pipe dream it was around the time Irving’s droning assessment of their stores of non-edible goods climbed past the twenty minute mark. His next tactic was to squeeze his thighs together, trying stealthily to create some friction to distract himself, some equilibrium between need and want. It was not an easy thing, trying to find and hold onto even idle pleasure while being treated to a narrative on what quantities they had of different widths and weavings of rope, but he managed it well enough for a little while. A little while, mind. By the time the meeting (interminably long, unaccountably dull) was ended he had resorted to tapping a foot on the boards, and if it went on a moment longer he was certain he would have had to take to subtly gripping himself in hand beneath the table. 

But it was ended now, and James was only too happy to have everyone cleared away to the wardroom. Ordinarily he would pause to share pleasantries with the Terrors, but the feeling in his belly and groin had reached an incandescent sort of urgency that now commanded his every action - he could not spare a moment.

And so of course, of _course—_ “I wonder if you might linger a moment to speak, Fitzjames?”

The tuneless tune of Francis’ voice, drifting over the chat of the rest of the officers to wrap an icy hand round James’ throat. He wished with all his heart to demur, to say, _Only a moment, Francis, I’ll meet you in the wardroom_ , but he could not do these things by halves. He had sworn to try and make some kind of positive understanding between the two of them - something that was deeper than the unsustainable cycle of professional hatred and rough sexual encounters they were currently mired in - and he would do anything in his power to further that goal.

“Of course,” he nodded, lips twitching up into what he could only hope passed for a smile.

The other officers filtered out to the wardroom, and James was left facing Francis, waiting. He truly did not think he could wait much longer.

“What do you think of Le Vesconte’s plan for the distribution of hunting parties?”

“Of—” James was puzzled. He had voiced his support for the scheme in the meeting not an hour ago. “A fine one, I should think. Though I worry if you should be right about the lack of game, since this is by your reckoning a colder year than most.” Francis bared his teeth in something that was not trying all that hard to be a smile. “Why do you ask?”

“You were quiet at the meeting.” Francis shrugged, moving sidelong across the room as he spoke. His eyes never left James - he seemed to be rather studying him, with an unsettling keenness in his eye that James could not recall having seen before. “I thought to consult, see if you had any further impressions. If there were some particular reason for your reticence.”

 _Bleeding Christ,_ James wanted to snap, _I was a bit distracted by the ocean I seem to have swallowed_. He was beginning to really be almost in pain now, shifting from foot to foot in a manner most unbefitting of a commander. If he did not do something soon he would make himself less dignified still. Why the devil was Francis pursuing this, now of all times?

It could not be that Francis was leading into an assignation, James thought, for their couplings generally had very little preamble, never involved any particular niceties of manner, and were not typically conducted while every officer of the expedition sat but one room away. The idea that Francis merely wished to converse with him, while a rosy one, was not very likely from the way he still seemed to glare and wince away from James as they conversed. This unusual willingness to engage, combined with the close way Francis was watching him (had been almost since the meeting began, now that he thought of it) and the fact he had shifted to stand between James and the seat—

He knew. He must have known. James took a moment to wonder how - had he noticed James fidgeting, caught the glances he couldn’t help making towards the seat? had he somehow discerned the motion of James rubbing his thighs together all that time? - before contemplative thought gave way to haughty anger and the sting of wounded pride. How dare Francis torment him in this way? He knew things were less than amicable between them, but he had never seen him as a truly cruel man. This seemed especially low, and he could not stand for it.

Yet all too soon he had to put aside this anger in favor of desperate, dizzying need. The time for pride was long past now. “Damn it, Francis,” he hissed, clenching what felt like every muscle in his body, “if you don’t leave off I’m going to—”

“Yes,” Francis returned, perhaps a bit more loudly than he ought to have. In an instant he was across the room - a distance of scarcely five steps, but still he appeared before James quickly enough to be dizzying to his distracted mind - and gripped James’ groin with an insistent, none-too-gentle palm. “I know what you need to do.” 

James’ leg brushed against Francis’ groin as he jolted with the shock of the touch - like a hot brand, even through three layers of fabric - and suddenly he understood what was afoot. He trailed his eyes down Francis’ body to make certain, and— Yes, there he was, prick hard enough to be fairly straining at his uniform trousers. It was not base cruelty that was driving this humiliation, he realized, but base desire. And base desire was well-trodden territory for them.

“Do you think you can hold back?” Francis was crowding into his space now, almost nose to nose, pressing him up against the wall. He gave a demonstrative squeeze that had James gasping and writhing against him.

“No,” James whispered, “no, no, I can’t, please—”

“You will.” Francis spoke in a low growl, breathing hot into James’ ear. “You will until I say so.”

James was only just able to wrestle back down his throat the noise that threatened to escape. His heart was pounding, but he barely felt it through the pulses of needful sensation that wracked him. He nodded wildly; anything, anything.

He rutted up into Francis’ palm, thinking that perhaps, if he were to get a stand, he could follow this command more easily— but the hand closed roughly, warningly around his prick and held him immobile there, hips trapped between thick hand and thin wall. James, having no other vocal outlet, breathed out a sigh that verged on the hysterical. “Please,” he breathed, “please, I can’t—”

Francis looked at him with disdain and heat in equal measure. “Can’t control yourself, can you,” he sneered. “Can’t even do as you’re told.”

 _Damn you, damn you,_ James thought, and _Please, I want, I want, I need_. What he said aloud, if it was anything intelligible, was secondary to he and Francis both. 

“Right, then.” Francis loosened his hand on James’ groin, but kept it pressed there. “Go on. Piss your fine trousers, Commander. Make a mess of us both.”

James was obeying almost from the first syllable. There was a delay, a tar-thick shuddering moment where all James felt was the incapacitating burst of mindless relief and a seeping warmth around his cock. Then there was the low hiss as his smalls became saturated, the dark stain growing visible beneath Francis’ hand (which had begun rubbing, now, little exploratory motions like he was savoring it). The shame, instinctual and dizzying and utterly meaningless: _Not the right place, not how one is meant to_. Most of all there was the boiling heat of it, the way it engulfed James’ prick and stones and thighs in bitter organic warmth. 

The humiliation of his situation and the exhilaration of relief curdled within James to form an arousal scarcely less urgent. Almost as soon as his stream had died down he was flushing to hardness in Francis’ grasp, grinding into his palm with abandon. He half-expected another reprimand, but none came; Francis only seized James’ wrist in turn and guided his hand to the hard ridge in his trousers. James fumbled to get Francis’ flies open - earning another derisive sound for his trouble when he took too long - and Francis’ prick sprang free, ruddy and leaking, for James to wrap his hand around. 

In this way, like a cart gone out of control whose driver must steer the horses on instinct without pausing to think, they were not long delayed in adding to the mess James had made. Francis came first, rutting wantonly into James’ sodden trouser-front; the rough pressure of Francis’ prick and the sight of his seed streaking the dark wool had James following not long after. 

His crisis left him feeling wrung-out more than anything. He had burned for it in the moment, but now he was standing chilly in his wet trousers before Francis, whom James expected would now be once again the hard ill-humored creature he dealt with in his daily life. He felt a pricking of shame that was much less appealing now that he had finished.

But once again Francis surprised James. He tugged almost gently at the waist of James’ trousers, muttered, “Take these off,” and disappeared through to the captain’s cabin. 

Bemused, James did as he was bid, shivering rather alarmingly as he peeled away his wet trousers (along with his woolens and his smalls, for good measure). He wondered absently if anyone had caught cold or fever in this way. But Francis was back already, driving all such morbid thoughts from James’ head - for he appeared with a stack of flannels and a basin of water, as well as a fresh set of clothing. 

“Water’s cold,” he said with some little degree of apology present in his voice, and he said no more as he set his cargo down. James scrutinized him openly as he set to cleaning himself up. He looked about as sour as he always was in James’ presence, but there was something else there, too - guilt, perhaps, James thought, or trepidation. Was this by way of an apology?

“Francis,” he said slowly as he slipped into his clean trousers. “I enjoyed that.”

Francis paused in the act of straightening his waistcoat; seemed to go back and forth with himself for a moment, opening and closing his mouth several times. Finally he seemed to settle: “We needn’t speak of it,” he replied in a tone rather brittle, not looking at James. He poked at the pile of wet things on the floor with the toe of his boot. “You’ll want to pour something strong over that to cover the smell. I suggest liquor.” 

In passing through to join the officers at dinner, Francis paused before James. For a moment he made to do - what? clap him on the shoulder? shake his hand? bring it up to kiss? each seemed more unlikely than the next - but dropped his hand and turned on his heel instead, ducking into the wardroom ( _Commander Fitzjames has had a mishap with a liquor-bottle, he’ll be joining us presently_ ). James stared after him for a moment, feeling suddenly very tired - then he shook his head as if to dislodge his mind from the spiral it was threatening, swept a still-damp hand through his hair, and pulled a bottle of whisky from the liquor-cabinet.


End file.
